“I know. Thank you.”
At work, I got buried in emails and spreadsheets. Shortly before one o’clock, my phone buzzed with a Ring notification. I nearly ignored it, but I remembered I was waiting on a diaper delivery, so I opened the clip.
The same delivery driver walked up to the porch carrying two boxes. He set them down by the door, adjusted the smaller one so it wouldn’t tip over, and started back toward his truck. Halfway down the path, he stopped. His head turned toward the side of our house — where we kept our trash cans. He stared in that direction for several seconds. Then he looked back toward the front door.
Even without sound, something about his expression made me sit up straighter. He took one step toward his truck, stopped again, and glanced back at the cans. His shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. Then he hurried back to the porch.
He picked up one of the boxes, tore a loose flap of cardboard off the side, and dug through his pockets. When he found a black marker, he bent over and started writing. His hands were shaking. I leaned closer to my screen.
He glanced behind himself once before holding the cardboard directly up to the camera.
Four words filled the screen.
“CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”
My stomach clenched. He held the message up long enough to be sure it got recorded, then slid the cardboard under the package and hurried back to his truck.
For several seconds, I didn’t move. I replayed the clip. He glances at the trash cans. He hesitates. He comes back to the camera. His hands shake. CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.
